


Cabin Fever

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Dirty Talk, Invasion of Privacy, Lab Accidents, Lab Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and...they were QUARANTINED, two scientists trapped in a lab what will they repress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: A lab accident means Newt and Hermann are forced to quarantine themselves together for two weeks. They'll get through it without killing each other. Probably.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 12
Kudos: 168





	Cabin Fever

**Author's Note:**

> nearing day 14 of being cooped up in my house which is great! have some quarantine porn!

Mandatory. Newt’s least favorite word in the world. He can’t think of a single one with worse connotations. Mandatory yearly physicals; mandatory progress meetings with Marshal Pentecost; mandatory PPDC galas, where Newt is crammed into a suit and told to limit expletives and modern slang from his vocabulary; mandatory lab inspection days, which are almost always followed by mandatory lab _clean-up_ days and mandatory endless, endless paperwork.

Mandatory fourteen-day laboratory quarantine with no outside contact to the world other than a tray of food slid under the door every few hours and the constant bitching of one Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, all day, every day.

“You act like I wanted this to happen,” Newt says. “Like I _planned_ it or something.”

“I know for certain you didn’t plan it,” Hermann says, “because you clearly lack even the most _basic_ sense of foresight that planning _anything_ would require.” He stabs at his baked potato so viciously with a fork that one of the plastic prongs snaps off. Newt can tell he was imagining Newt’s face in place of the potato. “No, _no_ , Newton, your incompetence is the rare breed born of utter, _blissful_ bloody ignorance, and that is what makes it all the more dangerous.”

So Newt poked a couple of things that shouldn’t have been poked. He prodded a couple things that definitely shouldn’t have been prodded. And maybe Hermann has a little bit of a point: the voice in the back of Newt’s head that should’ve been saying something like _that sounds like a bad idea_ throughout his poking and prodding was, instead, gleefully cheering him along. Hermann’s still acting like a giant baby about it all. It’s not like they’re stuck in here _forever_ —just two weeks while they wait for the kaiju toxins to dissipate. Just because Newt and Hermann weren’t affected doesn’t mean the rest of the base will be fine, too— _nor_ that there aren’t non-immediate side effects. Two weeks and they're out of here. “My point is that this sucks just as much for me,” Newt finally says.

If Newt thought being cooped up with Hermann for their daily work routine was bad, it’s nothing compared to his existence now. Before, he just had to deal with Hermann’s complaining and arguing and occasional hovering over Newt’s shoulder if he thought Newt wasn’t paying enough attention to his complaining or arguing, and then Newt could go home and spend eight beautiful hours unconscious and Hermann-free. Sometimes even a whole weekend. Hermann’s everywhere he turns, now: eating his meals with a paper napkin tucked into his collar, grumbling over his online chess puzzles, burning through packs of cigarettes like a prissy chimney, darning sweatervests, _showering_ , even, in the emergency bio-hazard shower they’ve been forced to repurpose. He doesn’t even get a reprieve from Hermann in his sleep—they’ve had to pop up the two lumpiest cots in existence to sleep on, dragged from the storage closet of the fortieth level of Hell itself, probably, and the furthest apart from each other they fit is three feet. And Hermann _snores_. It’s been a fucking nightmare, to put it lightly.

“I highly doubt that,” Hermann says.

Newt snorts.

“Whatever, dude,” he says. He scoops up his empty recyclable plate and silverware and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m taking a shower. Keep your eyes to yourself.”

The thing about the emergency shower is that all the walls except for one are made of glass, so they’ve had to get very, very good at coordinating shower times to avoid seeing more of each other than they’d like to. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in time for Newt—having roused early Tuesday morning in the hopes of beating Hermann to the hot water—to avoid giving Hermann an eyeful of ass when Hermann blinked awake mid-strip. The argument that followed _that_ had been legendary. “You _don’t_ need to worry,” Hermann snaps. 

* * *

It’s dark in the lab when Newt wakes up. At first, he’s not sure _why_ he’s woken up: his cell phone (set with an alarm for eight A.M.) remains silent and motionless by his elbow, as silent and motionless as the lab itself, and in the dim green light of his specimen tanks he can make out a blurry Hermann-shaped lump curled up under the bedsheets of the second cot. _Snoring_ away. Jesus, that’s probably what woke him up—Hermann’s stupid snoring. It wouldn’t be the first time in these hellish five days. Newt has half a mind to smother the guy with his own pillow if it means he can get a decent fucking night’s sleep.

Except—Newt slowly realizes, blinking away his grogginess—Hermann’s _not_ snoring, is he?

Newt is blind as shit without his glasses, but he’s not deaf, and the minuscule distance between them means he can hear everything. There’s no snoring, but Hermann’s breaths are coming out sharply, erratically, more like _pants_ than anything else, and every so often they taper into a low whine; for a wild moment, Newt thinks he must be having a panic attack, but then he hears the creaking of rusty cot springs, the nearly imperceptible glide of skin-on-wet-skin, and—to Newt’s stomach-churning, heart-thudding mortification—a _groan_.

Oh my _God_.

Hermann’s not sleeping. Hermann’s jacking off.

It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Almost everyone jacks off, Newt reasons. It’s a natural part of being human. Even people like Hermann—buttoned-up, stiff-lipped, repressed Hermann—need to kick back and pull that stick from their ass and unwind a little bit every now and then. Release some stress. Poor guy hasn’t had a moment to himself since they got stuck in here together.

Hermann groans again; his cot gives a particularly loud squeak.

Newt’s traitorous dick gives a little twitch in his sweatpants. 

Buttoned-up, stiff-lipped, repressed Hermann, in his sweatervests and shapeless slacks and saddle shoes, a legitimate _sexual being_ engaging in something as _debased_ as self-stimulation—the juxtaposition makes Newt feel a little dizzy. How does he do it? Newt likes to take his time—to touch himself all over—maybe even use a toy or two. Hermann, he imagines, is very methodical. Nice and quick about it. Nothing fancy, either—just his hand, working himself just long enough to find relief. One hand (large, strangely elegant), rucking up his wrinkled shirt...slipping down his slacks…

“Mm,” Hermann moans. It’s only half-muffled by his pillow—like he feels so good he can’t help himself from being noisy.

Hermann’s only human, and Newt’s only human, too. More importantly he knows he won't be able to fall asleep until until he takes care of this. He creeps his hand down past the waistband of his sweatpants, as quietly as he can manage, and bites back a whimper as he curls his fingers around himself. He gets riled up really easy—one touch and he’s already slick with precome. Hermann would be so _mad_ at him if he knew what he was doing. (And that's kind of the appeal, if Newt's being honest.)

Another throaty moan from Hermann. Newt begins to work himself over. What is Hermann thinking of? His stupid chalkboards, probably. Or his stupid math. Maybe he’s not thinking of anything—maybe he just sees it as another routine chore of his day. Maybe he’s thinking of Newt. (Newt bites down on his lip to keep from whimpering aloud.) Maybe he’s thinking of Newt blowing him—or of him blowing Newt—or maybe he’s picturing Newt’s hand on his dick instead. Newt bets he could show Hermann a good time if Hermann let him. And, anyway, it’s not like Newt hasn’t _considered_ Hermann before—is it that far-fetched to assume that Hermann’s considered him in return?

“Newton,” Hermann says.

Oh, fuck yes, he _is_ thinking of Newt. Newt swipes his thumb over the head of his dick and screws up his eyes tight. God, he wants to get his teeth in those stupid wide lips, mark up that stupid slender neck, pin those stupid bony wrists against the headboard and grab those skinny legs and just—

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says.

“Yeah, baby,” Newt moans.

Something hard hits Newt’s arm. Newt jerks up.

One of Hermann’s shoes is sitting on his mattress. Thrown, no doubt, by Hermann himself, who is sitting straight up, legs swung over the side of the cot—and Newt doesn’t even need to fumble his glasses on to see that Hermann is very, very angry. “What the _hell_ ,” Hermann hisses, “are you _doing_?”

“Uh,” Newt squeaks.

Even in the bad lighting, it's obvious that Hermann is flushed a bright, brilliant red, though whether from embarrassment or arousal Newt can’t be sure. The top two buttons of his pajama shirt are undone. The waistband of the matching striped bottoms is twisted and uneven, no doubt pulled up in a hurry, and a pair of tighty-whiteys poke out atop it. Poking out atop that— “Newton,” Hermann repeats, all righteous fury, “I _said_ —”

“I _heard_ you,” Newt says.

Hermann folds his arms. Newt hasn’t taken his hand off his dick yet.

“I was jerking off, okay?” he says, and ignores Hermann’s _scandalized_ intake of breath. “Yeah, whatever, so fucking sue me, it’s _your_ fault. You’re supposed to do that kind of shit in private, dude!”

Hermann opens and shuts his mouth a few times, soundlessly, like he’s so furious he can’t even properly form words. “I thought you were _asleep_!” he finally shouts. “I didn’t think—”

“Whatever,” Newt repeats. He flops over on his side, facing deliberately away from Hermann so Hermann can’t see his burning, red-faced shame. Trust Hermann to turn _his_ stupid mistake into Newt’s. “Your technique sounds like it sucks, anyway. I thought a guy who _clearly_ only gets action from his hand would have more practice.”

Hermann emits a deep, furious growl, and when he speaks, his voice comes out in a deadly whisper. His stupid posh accent sounds thicker than usual. “You detestable, despicable creature. You have the _audacity_ to _spy_ on me—to _pleasure yourself_ to me, without my knowledge—”

Newt’s arousal—rather than shriveling up and dying, as it _should_ —spikes dangerously, and a bead of precome spills over his fingers. _Fuck_.

“Of course,” Hermann continues, “I don’t know why I expected _otherwise_ from the likes of you. You must _get off_ on being unwanted.”

Newt rolls his hips into his fist with a whimper that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. It’s a mistake: Hermann hears. “Are you—?!”

“No,” Newt says quickly, but it comes out in another high-pitched whimper, one that makes it pretty clear he _is_ , in fact.

For a moment, Hermann is stunned into silence. Newt can picture the exact sort of face he’s making—mouth agape, ears flaming red, eyes wide and popping. It's never seemed so erotic before now. “You,” Hermann splutters, “I can’t—you _pathetic little man_.”

“Yeah,” Newt groans before he can help himself. (He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t considered Hermann, but he’d be lying even further if he said his spats with Hermann don’t get him flustered and horny as fuck, that he doesn’t end half of them by storming down the hallway to the men’s room and rubbing a quick one out to nothing but the memory of Hermann’s scowl and Hermann’s cruel, _cruel_ words.) His strokes turn furious, too-rough, too-dry, the cot mattress creaking with each one, but it’s fucking _perfect_. In for a penny and all that. “Yeah, fuck, I am.”

“Miserable,” Hermann says, “and—and _disgusting_ , and—”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Newt agrees.

“You will _look_ at me when I’m speaking to you!”

Newt rolls back over, kicking the sheets away as he goes, but he forces himself to still his hand. “Sorry, dude,” he pants. “No free shows.”

The look Hermann gives him sends shivers running down his spine and heat coiling in the pit of his stomach. Equal parts _loathing_ and _starving_ —like he wants nothing more than to get his hands around Newt’s neck, though he can’t quite decide whether it's to throttle him or to push him down to suck his cock. His pajama waistband is straining against his erection. Newt thinks he'd take the throttling _and_ the pushing. “You,” Hermann says.

“I’ll let you watch if you let me watch,” Newt says. “C’mon, lemme see.” He’s been longing to know what kind of bod Hermann keeps under buttoned-lock-and-key for as long as he can remember. Hermann’s a skinny son of a bitch, but his clothing is just a bit _too_ big (especially around the crotch), and Newt has a feeling his cane has left him with arms more toned than average. Definitely more toned than Newt’s.

“I don’t believe you’re in any position to be making demands,” Hermann breathes, but his eyes have traveled down to the bulge in Newt's sweatpants, and—when Newt gives himself a little squeeze, for show—Hermann’s tongue darts out over his bottom lip. 

“I disagree,” Newt says.

He slips out of his t-shirt and lets it drop to the floor next to his docs, then unties the drawstring of his sweatpants and kicks them down until they’re pooling at his calves. For once he’s grateful they shut off A/C to the lab ages ago—the warm air is welcome on his nudity. “Okay,” he says. “Now you.”

Hermann fidgets uncomfortably, his eyes darting from Newt's colorfully inked chest, to Newt's love handles, to (finally) glue themselves at Newt’s dick.

“Dude,” Newt says.

“Fine,” Hermann says.

He undoes each button of his pajama shirt slowly, an unintentional (or maybe intentional) striptease, and when it falls from his shoulders, he folds it and sets it on his pillow. His pants and tighty-whiteys he tugs down just enough to settle under his erection and dark patch of tangled pubic hair. Newt was right—his arms _are_ toned. He’s got nice pecs, too, though he’s still a little too-pale, and a little on the bony side. “Awesome,” Newt says. He parts his knees as wide as he can and gives himself a few strokes. “So what happens in the lab stays in the lab, right?”

Hermann is watching him with a slightly glazed expression on his face. “Pardon?”

“I mean—” Newt tightens his grip, and lets out a little grunt. “Oh, _fuck_ , that’s good. I mean this stays between us. I know your first instinct is gonna be to run and brag to everyone that you slept with me—”

“Hardly!” Hermann says, and then, his scowl returning with a vengeance, “This is _not_ sleeping together!”

“Fine, whatever you wanna call it,” Newt says. “Masturbating with the enemy.” He tweaks one of his nipples. “Touch yourself already, dude, you’re killing me.”

Hermann obliges. He’s fumbling, clumsy, even _shy_ , and the overall effect is weirdly endearing. Newt can’t help but smile. “Stop looking so bloody smug,” Hermann snaps.

“I’m not,” Newt says.

“Yes you are,” Hermann says, swelling with anger, and their current circumstances would make it _comical_ if it wasn't so fucking hot. Hermann's probably the only guy in the world who can manage to be bitchy and petty with his dick out. “First you _intrude_ upon my private affairs—then you drag me from bed—and now—” He swears under his breath. “You are a foul, _wretched_ —”

“I know,” Newt sighs happily.

“— _horrible_ —”

“Uh-uh,” Newt moans.

“— _tart_ , who—”

“Say that again.”

“Tart,” Hermann snarls.

Newt slumps back to the mattress, biting his lip to keep in his whines; he hears Hermann’s hand speed up in time with his. “Tell me,” Newt says, between sharp, gasping breaths, “tell me what—what you were thinking about. Nn. Earlier.” It could’ve been Newt blowing him, or it could’ve been Newt’s hand on his dick, or maybe it was his jizz across Newt’s cheeks, or his fingers stuffed in Newt’s mouth, or Newt on his knees as he called him horrible, horrible names. Newt would take any of it. Newt would take all of it. “Was it me?”

Hermann grunts affirmatively. He’s tossed his head back, baring that pretty, pretty throat to Newt, and his shoulders are shaking. “The other morning,” he says. His tongue darts out over his lips again. “The—the shower.”

“Oh, fuck,” Newt says, and he jizzes all over himself.

Hermann makes a strange, guttural noise, and (already feeling the lazy post-coital fogginess of a job well done) Newt turns his head just in time to watch Hermann's whole body tense and his mouth drop open: he’s coming, too, in messy streaks across his abdomen. Hermann— _messy._ It's undoubtedly going to feature prominently in Newt’s jerk-off fantasies for the rest of his life. 

They catch their breath in silence. After what feels like hours, the springs of Hermann’s cot creak as he redresses himself and settles himself back beneath his sheets. “Thank you,” Hermann says, in a terse whisper. “That wasn’t...wholly unpleasant.”

He clears his throat.

“If you’re amenable, perhaps we could repeat the experience tomorrow evening.”

Newt grins at the ceiling. “Looking forward to it,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb, horny 18+ twitter at hermanngayszler, and tumblr at hermannsthumb!


End file.
